


Forged Through Fire

by Rori_Teagan



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rori_Teagan/pseuds/Rori_Teagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: As you get older, if you're lucky, you learn that family doesn’t start and end with blood.</p><p>Warning: Hunter is introduced on Qaf US as an underage prostitute, as such the above warnings apply although they are alluded to and not graphically depicted. Thanks</p><p>Originally written for lj's Flashfly</p><p>New Soul by Yael Naim</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forged Through Fire

 

I.

~~I'm a new soul I came to this strange world hoping I could learn a bit ‘bout how to give and take.

But since I came here

Felt the joy and the fear

Finding myself making every possible mistake~~

 

His mom hates nuts. Despises them. It’s the only thing that they share, besides dirty blond hair, and sharp features, and a tendency to grow lean and tall and thin. It’s the one thing that connects them. Besides the nine months they had shared one body, the twelve years they’d shared one home, the hush-a-bye, darling, don’t you cry. The blood that runs through their veins, and the promise of unconditional love that lay between them in tattered ribbons unfulfilled. 

Lately he’s been thinking about that.

How they both despise nuts.

It’s not so much really. In the scheme of things. 

 

II.

~~I'm a young soul in this very strange world hoping I could learn a bit ‘bout what is true and fake.

But why all this hate?

Try to communicate.

Finding trust and love is not always easy to make.~~

 

He’s twelve the first time. He’s shaking, hands trembling, jaw stiff and hard the way he’s learned to hold it to keep his teeth from chattering. He doesn’t remember any specifics. He keeps his head up, keeps his eyes open, but there’s nothing there behind it. Blond, brunette, graying around the edges, cue-ball. Scar across the bridge of the nose, melts into blue eyes fades into thin white lips curls into worry lines, now a smirk now a frown. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t see.

Head up, eyes open, unseeing. Nothing happens. Nothing’s happening. Nothing happens. He repeats it, he believes it, that first time. It’s true. Head up, eyes open, jaw strong, unseeing. 

He doesn’t remember it any clearer than that.

Stale breath, calloused hands possessively rough, those things stay the same.

Pressed out through cold stiff lips because his mother made him promise not to forget:

“It’s double raw.”

The man removes another twenty and places it carefully on the night-stand, little crinkly green tents swallowed by endless expanses of wood. 

One trick to another... that doesn’t change, that’s probably what that first time was like. 

Later he learns to look.

 

III. 

~~This is a happy end cause' you don't understand everything you have done why's everything so wrong~~

 

He doesn’t remember his first, and he doesn’t know when his last became his last. There’s no clear marker for that either. One day he refocuses, looks up again to see himself, see his life, and realizes that it hasn’t included sacrifice. Not in so long.

 

He used to think he could never forgive her. That some things went beyond survival and forgiveness. And then…if only she’d say “sorry” once … he could do what he’d done when he was four. It’s okay, mom. And they could both forget.

 

IV. 

~~This is a happy end come and give me your hand I'll take your far away.~~

 

He sees her again, on the street, on a corner, sitting at a curb. Frail and thin, blond hair more dirt than shade. He’s walking with Callie, he’s wearing his uniform. Ben took him last weekend for a hair cut, Michael nagged until he compromised three inches to save his ears. Brian smirked and made some bitchy comment about the domesticity of it all over Sunday dinner…while holding his son in one arm, the other cradling Gus’ stack of Thomas the train books, Justin balancing on the arm of the couch closest to him. The bastard was so full of it. It was still hot. In the kitchen Hunter’s little sister babbled out a high-pitched wordless song, Mel humming along tunelessly with her. J.R. was already a screamer. Like her dad.  

He sees her again, on the street, Callie holding his hand. 

“Jamie,” she says, “You’ve changed.” 

He walks past her and thinks peanuts and hush-a-bye. And James Hunter Montgomery - Bruckner - Novotny  He needs a fucking anagram. And he thinks, he doesn’t need to forgive, he already has.

 

~~A new soul…in this very strange world…~~

 

The End.


End file.
